


Clinical

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Good Friend, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has Issues, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24759628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: Sherlock seems to be sulking again--but John is beginning to wonder if there could be more to it.
Kudos: 30





	1. Blank

"Sherlock. Eat." John sat still on the edge of his chair, keeping his gaze on the consulting detective lying on the sofa.

Sherlock's eyes hadn't opened for the past three hours, but he wasn't asleep. He let out a mumbled "Mm..." in response to John's words, but didn't move.

"There's a sandwich on the table beside you." John tried again, leaning forward a bit.

"I know... I can smell it..."

"So sit up and eat it. This is ridiculous. You don't even have a case for an excuse."

"Not hungry..." Sherlock groaned.

John's brows furrowed even further. "You weren't hungry yesterday either, or the day before, or the day before that. We're not going four days in a row."

"Mm..."

John's grip on the arm of his chair tightened, and he let his eyes stray over to the window, where the cold grey light of morning was shining dully through the glass.

It wasn't as if this was the first time this had ever happened.

Sometimes Sherlock just... _did that._

Sometimes not speaking.

Often not eating.

Hardly moving.

He looked back at the sofa and let a silent, heavy breath escape him.

It was never easy to predict how long it would go on.

Sherlock's chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed, and in between each one he almost looked dead. His cheekbones seemed sharper, and his closed eyes were shadowed, betraying his recent sleeping habits.

"You've lost weight." It came out a little accusing, though John didn't intend it to.

"Happens, when you don't eat." Sherlock heaved himself up to a sitting position, clearly with a little effort. He sat, slightly hunched, and glanced down at the plate on the coffee table beside him.

John tried to find any hint of an expression on his face... but there wasn't much to find.

Blank.

He felt his muscles tense, and his stomach twist. That empty look made him uneasy. It always had. He knew, deep down, that it meant something was... just a bit not good.

"Maybe later..." Sherlock mumbled and let himself fall back to the sofa again haphazardly, apparently not bothered by the position he fell into.

"Sherlock... can we talk about something?"

No answer.

John swallowed. "Look... I'm your friend—but I'm also your doctor. And this is..."

He watched as Sherlock's eyes opened just slightly and slid over toward him.

"...this isn't normal. Have you ever—..." He took a deep breath. "...have you ever talked to anyone about depression?"

"I'm not depressed."

"No? Then what is this? Because I'll tell you, from over here, this looks exactly like it."

"I'm just tired..."

"Mmhm."

"And bored. You know how I hate being bored..." Sherlock shut his eyes again and dragged himself up to his feet, where he paused for a few seconds, breathing deeply.

Dizzy, most likely.

But before John could say anything he was moving again, nearly to his bedroom door.

"I'm having a shower..."

John bit his tongue and stood up stiffly. "Be careful..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm going to do the shopping..."

Sherlock's eyes flicked back to him for a second, but John was already going for his jacket.

The front door shut downstairs a few minutes later, but Sherlock hadn't moved from where he stood in the hallway. His gaze slowly drifted back toward the living room, where the sandwich was still sitting on the table.

He walked back in, passing the coffee table and on into the kitchen, where he pulled open one of the drawers and reached far into the back deliberately, searching until his fingers closed around the cold metal he'd been looking for, and he stilled.

The flat seemed more hushed than usual.

Empty.


	2. Painful

It had begun to rain lightly by the time John reached Baker Street again.

Misty droplets clung to his hair and the bags he was carrying, but he barely noticed, too lost in thought.

He fumbled for the key, and once inside he stopped in the entryway. He stayed quiet, head lifted to listen to the slow, stretched out strains of muffled violin drifting down from the floor above.

It was beautiful, but it sounded...

John wasn't sure how to describe it immediately.

But it made his jaw clench, and set something in him on edge. He started up the stairs slowly, almost dreading it.

_Painful._

_It sounded painful._

Sherlock was seated in his chair, drawing the bow across the violin strings listlessly. He paused and looked up when John entered, and his eyes followed him from the door over to the kitchen to dump the bags on the table.

The quiet didn't last long as Sherlock began playing again idly, going back to staring into space in front of him.

John stayed in the kitchen for a while, putting things away and only half listening to what he was quite sure Sherlock was composing on the spot.

It wasn't until he stepped out into the living room again that his eyes fell on the corner of the coffee table, and he stopped dead.

"Why is your gun out?"

"Hmm...?" Sherlock's eyes went back to him, still impassive.

"Your gun." John's posture was tight, and his voice held a snap of tension. "It wasn't there earlier."

"Ah..." He shrugged almost casually. "Felt better, having it..."

"No. No, we're not doing this." John crossed the room quickly and snatched the gun from the table, making sure the safety was on. "This isn't—no. Okay? Don't even—"

Sherlock had lowered the violin and was watching him quietly, his expression still impossible to read.

His eyes drifted down to John's shoes, and his fingertips ran along the edge of the wooden bow languidly.

"I need something to do..."

"Okay. Right. We'll..." John hardly noticed how tightly he was gripping the gun. "I'll check the blog. Alright? Maybe we could... I don't know..."

"You're tense."

"Yes I'm tense! You don't seem—I mean—" John drew in a deep breath. "No guns, right now." He watched Sherlock's eyes move up to the firearm in his hands, and he held it tighter. "I'll... make some tea..."

He turned his back and retreated into the kitchen quickly, ignoring the feeling of Sherlock's gaze. He set the kettle on to boil, moving stiffly.

Maybe he was overreacting...

But something just made him uncomfortable, seeing that gun appear, especially after the way things had been going...

John stood still in the kitchen for a moment after the tea was made, leaning both hands against the counter.

The steam rose in lazy wisps from the cups before him, twisting and disappearing into the shadows above the lamps.

He shut his eyes and drew in another breath.

From out in the living room came the leather creak of Sherlock's chair and the sound of his feet on the floor, and John straightened up quickly.

The violin had been laid back in its stand by the time he returned to the living room, and Sherlock was standing by the window with his back to the room.

John paused, both cups in hand.

"Sherlock...?"

There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock turned just enough to look back at him.

"I wasn't going to shoot myself."

"I..." John's brain felt temporarily blank; he felt he should speak but he couldn't find any words.

"I know that's what you think, clearly, but I wasn't. I just... _need something._ "

John swallowed. "What...?"

" _Something..._ " Sherlock turned back to the window, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm _bored..._ "

"Right..." He became aware that the steaming cups he was holding were beginning to burn his fingers, and set them down on the side table nearest him. "I'll check the blog..."

Sherlock remained still while John fetched his laptop and quickly opened it, glancing up at his back every so often.

_Bored, definitely..._

_But was that really all...?_


End file.
